


There's still a fire in my heart

by lunasenzanotte



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Football, Football | Soccer, Illegal Activities, Juventus Turin, M/M, Real Madrid CF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 12:46:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6705043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunasenzanotte/pseuds/lunasenzanotte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Football is illegal in Spain. Matches are played at night and in secret, both players and spectators facing prison charges, players are basically the property of the team's owners and any serious injury equals death penalty. Iker Casillas is captaining his team in El Clásico, which could easily become the last match of his life…</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's still a fire in my heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brampersandon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/gifts).



> The alternate dystopian universe takes place in the Carlo Ancelotti era, but the dating is not precise. 
> 
> There is already a series of works that feature the underground football, but I wanted to make a little darker version of the universe.

If Iker could actually choose which club to play for, he would still choose Real Madrid, or what is called Real Madrid nowadays.

Owned by the mysterious Mr. P (the owners have enough common sense not to brag about owning a football club when it could send them behind the bars for the rest of their lives), Real Madrid has the best conditions for the players that are possible to create in these times. None of the players know who Mr. P actually is, what he looks like or what he does when he’s not there, and they almost don’t care. For them, Mr. P is the shadow leaving their coach’s office by the fire escape late at night, he’s the one who decides about their lives, invisibly and irrevocably. He’s almost like God to them, only not so merciful and forgiving.

Shortly before football was banned, Mr. P bought a shopping center on the outskirts of the city that was just closing down. It basically gave him a training facility with equipment, dormitory, and a makeshift stadium, all in one. The matches don’t have to be played in the open, the players don’t have to hide in shabby rooms and train in constant fear of being caught.

Of course, the fear is still there. Even though the matches are only attended by the sponsors and their associates that the sponsors vouch for, they can never be completely sure that one of them isn’t a spy, or even a disguised member of the AFU, Anti-Football Unit, the new troops the police created after even street football was banned. Though as things stand, being arrested isn’t the worst fear on their minds.

But for Iker, there is a nostalgia that makes him forget all those fears. He loves Real Madrid for what it used to be, he loves the club he used to love as a child, chasing the ball on the streets, wearing the white jersey that was washed so many times it was threatening to fall apart on his body. He dreamt of playing in front of a chanting crowd, defending the crest that would be embroidered and not slapped on hastily in some obscure factory, he dreamt of excitement and glory. And even when they banned football, Iker refused to give up on his dream. Blame it on the teenager’s naivety or simply his stubbornness, he knew that he would play football even if it was to cost his life. No chanting crowd, no glory, but the excitement could still make up for it until things started to fall apart even more.

* * *

The dining room is actually a former fast-food restaurant. Some of the stoves still work and luckily Mr. P admitted that the nutrition is the key for the players (admitted that after a long, long persuading by their coach – generosity isn’t a quality Mr. P possesses).

Marcelo makes a face when his portion of breakfast lands in front of him. “I know this stuff is probably all healthy, full of proteins and all that jazz, but in all honesty, it looks like shit and doesn’t taste much better,” he says.

“Thank you for ruining the last remnants of our appetite, Marcelo,” Cristiano growls.

Marcelo just grins. “Sure. Anytime.”

Truth is that they don’t have much appetite no matter what Marcelo says. Tonight they play against Barcelona, a home match, but still, with fifty spectators instead of forty thousand, the atmosphere can get hostile even on their own ground. El Clásico still has the prestige, even in the underground football.

Their coach is having his breakfast in the corner of the dining room, studying some papers. They often wonder what these papers are about when there are no official reports nor statistics anymore.

“Sometimes I think Carlo just stares at empty papers,” Fábio scratches his head. “You know, to feel like he’s coaching a normal team.”

“Are you implying that we are not normal?” Marcelo grins.

“You surely aren’t.”

Carlo finishes his coffee and gets up. He stops at Iker’s table. “After the gym, come to my office,” he says. “We need to talk.”

* * *

Carlo’s office that probably belonged to the director of the shopping center is full of old football posters, jerseys, and trophies. Memories of the old good times. Iker hates it. It always makes him all sappy and melancholic.

“I need to talk to you before I talk to the team,” Carlo says. “I had a meeting with Mr. P last night, and to say that he’s disappointed with the team is a very mild expression.”

Iker nods and bites his lip. There is nothing to say. This is a black season. Injuries, disappearances, stupid losses, and the first one to blame is the coach. The second is, of course, Iker.

“I don’t need to say that we absolutely need to win tonight,” Carlo says.

“Of course,” Iker sighs. “But the team is...”

“I know,” Carlo interrupts him. “I know, we are short on forwards, after Karim... well, whatever happened to Karim.”

Iker bites his lip again. Well, Karim disappeared. Whether another owner stole him or he ran away, they would find out once he appeared on the pitch for another team. There was nothing they could do. Going to the police made no sense when the police were after them. Of course, Iker was the one to blame. Like he could keep an eye on the players twenty-four seven.

“Also, the defense is kind of... sparse, but we will manage,” Carlo says. “We don’t know if Barcelona will have the full squad available.” There’s a hint of desperate hope in his voice.

“So... who are you going to play with Cristiano, when Karim is gone?” Iker asks.

“Morata.”

Iker blinks and clears his throat.

“Do I have another choice?” Carlo snaps.

“Probably not.”

“Fine. You can go now. I hope we are clear. If we don’t win tonight, it will have consequences. Nobody wants that.”

Iker nods gloomily and walks out of the office. For the first time in his life, he is not looking forward to playing a match. Or maybe it’s not the first time, and that thought actually scares him more than any of the threats.

* * *

The Blaugrana arrive in two vans, separately in an interval of five minutes, most probably taking two different ways, and park in the underground car park. There arealready a few cars that belong to the sponsors.

“Hurry up, the match is starting in an hour,” Xavi grunts and looks at the driver. “You call that enough time for a warm-up?”

“You want us to get pulled off for speeding?” the driver snaps and bangs the door shut. “These days you can get thrown in jail for having football shoes in your house. Leave alone for having eight football players in your van. I really don’t know how I would explain that to the police.”

“Calm down, we have enough time,” Iniesta says in a comforting voice.

They make way to the locker room and get changed quickly. Gerard and Jordi are joking on the way to the pitch while Xavi is trying to explain some tactics to them.

“We’ve already heard that five times, Xavi!” Adriano sighs. “We’re not kids. Well, not all of us.”

Sergi Roberto stomps on his foot and Adriano recommends him to keep it for Pepe.

“Would you stop it?” Xavi barks.

“Hey, chill out,” Gerard says. “Football is supposed to be fun!”

Xavi looks up and glares at him. “It’s been a long time since football was just fun,” he says quietly.

* * *

The pitch is in one of the large storerooms. The grass is artificial and they have to play in the sickening light of the fluorescent tubes, but it’s better than nothing. The spectators, mostly middle-aged men in expensive clothes and their bored wives and girlfriends, are sitting in the provisional stands above the pitch. There are two men with rather cheap video cameras. Some people who don’t have the possibility or the courage to go watch the matches at least watch the streaming. Even that is illegal, but the websites are mostly well protected. They are also connected to betting companies. Those are also illegal but make big money nevertheless.

The referees are few nowadays, so they go from match to match. They get paid well, but the risk they run is probably bigger than the players do, so they always welcome some extra money. If some of them were corrupted before, now only a few of them aren’t.

The main referee checks if all the players are ready. Some are still tying their shoelaces or pulling up the socks in the narrow corridor leading to the storeroom. “Captains, ready?” he asks impatiently.

Iker looks over his shoulder and frowns, which finally makes Álvaro stop pulling his socks up repeatedly. “Ready,” he says.

“Yeah, ready,” Xavi nods.

They walk on the pitch. As always, Iker dreams of the anthem of Real Madrid being chanted by thousands and thousands of voices, but all he gets is a lukewarm applause. The ceremony is quick, just a hasty wave to the sponsors and a shake of hands between the captains. Then the referee whistles and everyone forgets where they are, they forget that this is just a storeroom and not a real stadium, forget that what they are doing is illegal, forget about the fear. There is just the thrill, the excitement, and joy, emotions so pure and simple that it’s impossible to imagine what the ones who banned it were thinking.

* * *

Twenty minutes into the game, Iniesta serves the ball to Neymar with scary accuracy and Neymar finds the corner of the net, not giving Iker a slight chance of stopping that one.

The Merengues push for the equalizer, but all the shots are too wide or deflected. Cristiano even falls in the penalty area, but the referee only motions for him to get up, which is met with the appreciative smirks of the Blaugrana defenders.

They walk off the pitch at half-time losing 0-1. Iker can practically feel the imaginary stool rocking under his feet.

* * *

They begin the second half playing more aggressively (Iker likes to think that it is because of his fiery speech during the break), but playing with the _just-came-back-from-an-injury_ Sami in the defense, _not-really-in-the-best-form_ Luka in the midfield and _too-nervous-first-time-in-the-starting-eleven_ Álvaro in the front, Iker still knows that they need a freaking miracle to win today. The team looks like an old patched blanket and it doesn’t work.

But with twenty minutes remaining, Sergio’s head appears above the others and sends the ball into the net. Iker watches with relief the cluster of players running to congratulate Sergio. Cristiano still has a slightly sour face on as he has every time the goal isn’t his, but right now every goal is more than welcome.

Luka sends a long pass to Álvaro who manages to avoid Adriano and get into a good position. That is until Mascherano appears out of nowhere and slides under his feet from behind, missing the ball but finding Álvaro’s ankle unmistakably.

There is a whistle and raised voices both from the players and the spectators. The referee pulls out a yellow card and Sergio is yelling that _he fucking almost killed him, he went after him, not the ball, how is that a yellow?_ , but it looks like Álvaro couldn’t care less. Isco kneels down next to him and squeezes his shoulder.

“Can you get up?” he asks.

It’s not actually a question, it means _you have to get the fuck up whatever it takes_ , and Álvaro tries. Getting up isn’t the hardest part. But when he tries to stand on the injured leg, he almost faints. Isco shows Carlo that a substitution will be needed, and Carlo rolls his eyes because _come on_ , it’s not like they have another forward on the bench right now.

In the meanwhile, Sergio escapes the hold of his teammates and rejoins the referee who is walking to the middle of the pitch calmly. “Can you tell me how much the fuck they paid you?” he yells.

The referee doesn’t say anything, only reaches in his pocket and shows Sergio a yellow card. And Iker feels like strangling someone, more precisely Sergio because Sergio already has a yellow card, _you damn idiot_ , and the referee shows the red and leaves them in ten.

Five minutes from the final whistle, Messi curves a shot from a free kick to the post where Iker wanted two defenders, but that would require Sergio being still on the pitch.

* * *

Isco runs to their room straight from the shower.

“We lost,” Álvaro looks up at him and he looks like a fucking baby Bambi and Isco almost doesn’t have the heart to tell him that _yes, we lost to Barcelona and the coach is probably currently being yelled at by Mr. P and Iker is maybe tying a noose for himself right now_.

“Yeah. Messi.”

There is a bag of frozen vegetables from the fridge placed on Álvaro’s ankle instead of ice, and Isco takes it off carefully because it’s almost melted already. He gets up to go look if there’s another one in the fridge, but Álvaro grabs his hand and pulls him back. “I don’t want to die,” he whispers.

“Of sprained ankle?” Isco smiles.

“If it’s not just a sprained ankle...” Álvaro says and looks at him. “I don’t want to end up like Jesé.”

“Shut up,” Isco frowns.

Sprained ankles, pulled muscles and contusions are alright. Broken bones and torn ligaments equal death penalty. The doctors have no means, and usually not sufficient skills either, to perform surgeries, and a player who isn’t able to play is worth nothing to the owner. And nobody is going to risk the players going to the hospital and telling the doctors there how they came to the injuries. Everyone knows what happens to such players. One night they simply disappear and nobody ever sees them again.

“You know the coach wanted to get rid of me. He never played me for more than a few minutes. And now this.”

Isco’s heart clenches at the desperation in Álvaro’s voice. He curses the bastard Mascherano in his mind. The next Clásico he will make sure Mascherano doesn’t walk off the pitch with all four limbs in their place. “He really did go after you on purpose,” he says to change the subject at least slightly.

Álvaro just shrugs. “I don’t know. I didn’t even see him. I think he didn’t even hit me that hard, I just fell really badly.”

“Still. It was a clear red. Fucking bastard, that ref.”

A middle-aged man in a tracksuit enters the room. It’s one of the doctors the coach has on speed dial. The doctors are of questionable reputation but they keep their mouths shut for money. This one looks like he was just in the middle of a movie and a bottle of beer when Carlo called him. “Can’t they at least get normal ice? I feel like I’m supposed to cook soup here,” he grumbles and picks up the pack of vegetables.

He touches Álvaro’s ankle and Álvaro almost flies right through the ceiling like a spaceship. “Calm down, it’s not fatal,” the doctor mumbles. “A bad sprain. I’ll bandage it and God be with you if you step on it in the next three days.”

“He won’t,” Isco smirks. “I’ll make sure of that.”

The doctor bandages Álvaro’s ankle and pulls out a bottle of pills. He hands Álvaro two of them and then leaves a few on the nightstand. He doesn’t even need to leave instructions, they know them by heart. Half of the players are hooked on those pills already.

He leaves soon after, apparently eager to be out of there as it’s not a place he wants to be caught leaving. Isco settles on the bed, leaning against the headboard. Álvaro snuggles up to him, tired from the match, exhausted from the fear and immense relief, sleepy from the pills. “Next time we beat them,” he murmurs against Isco’s neck.

“Sure,” Isco smiles.

“Aren’t you mad sometimes?” Álvaro asks. “I mean, that you have to play for us. I always... thought you’d be happier if you could still play for Málaga.”

Isco sighs and closes his eyes. He’s glad that before he can answer, Álvaro is already asleep, so he finally doesn’t have to speak at all.

* * *

Iker is still sitting in the changing room, even though everyone is already gone. At least he thinks so.

“I fucked up.”

Iker lifts his head and looks at Sergio. “We would still have lost, probably,” Iker says bluntly.

“I’m sorry. I just... it was so clear that he was bribed, I couldn’t hold back. And even more when I saw that kid...”

“I know,” Iker sighs.

“What will happen now?” Sergio asks. “I mean, you’re the captain, but I’m the vice-captain. I should have some responsibility as well.”

Iker chuckles at the combination of the words _Sergio_ and _responsibility_. “I don’t know. Mr. P is probably talking to Carlo now. He’s mad. He’s putting money into this and nothing comes back. We even have runaway players...”

“Karim is an idiot!” Sergio snaps. “It’s not your fault.”

“It practically is.” Iker throws the wet pile of clothes to the corner of the room. “I don’t know, Sergio,” he sighs. “I’m not even enjoying this anymore. I mean football. I thought I was lucky to still play when the others quit. But now... where is the joy in that, where is the excitement? You can’t set a foot outside this place because for the outside world you practically don’t exist anymore. The people who come to watch don’t give a damn or don’t even understand football, all they care about is the money. And the players? Do they still enjoy it? Do you?”

Sergio shrugs. “It’s all I know.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Iker nods. “It’s all we know. But it’s not like what we used to know anymore. And I don’t know if it’s not the right time to stop.”

Sergio gives him a look between “you can’t be serious” and “don’t even speak that out loud”. “They will never let you go,” he says.

Iker just shrugs and gets up. “Everything ends one day. Maybe the day is today.”

* * *

Loud voices and heavy steps wake the players up. There are lights dancing on the walls, blue lights of the cars parked outside and white of torches used by the policemen currently searching through the first floor.

Isco jumps out of the bed and runs to the door. Their floor is still empty. “We need to get out!” he whispers.

“I can’t,” Álvaro says.

“What?” Isco asks and in that moment he remembers.

“I can’t,” Álvaro repeats with a sad smile. “I won’t even make three steps.”

“So I’ll help you,” Isco says and hauls him up.

It takes them almost a minute to even get to the door of the bedroom. It’s clear that they won’t get anywhere like this, but Isco refuses to give up with desperate stubbornness.

“Stop!” Álvaro says quietly. “Get out and leave me here.”

“What? No!” Isco protests.

“They’ll catch us both like this. You still have time to get away. Go.”

“No!”

A loud crash sounds from somewhere. Isco turns that way and then looks back.

“Go,” Álvaro whispers. “I’ll be fine.”

With a heavy heart, Isco helps him sit on the floor and kisses him on the lips. Álvaro stops clutching his sleeves and smiles. “Took you a long time.”

* * *

It doesn’t take the policemen much time to find Álvaro. They are a bit taken by surprise by someone who is practically waiting for them, but recompose themselves quickly.

Only two stay in the room, the others go chasing the other players. One of the two is a woman, a girl actually, without a doubt fresh off the police academy. Hair pulled up in a neat ponytail, uniform in order, black boots shining almost more than the gun she now puts back into the holster. Álvaro knows that these are the worst. The older police officers sometimes let them slip when they caught them kicking the ball on the streets, warned them off, sometimes confiscated the ball, but they still understood. Remembered the thrill, the emotions, the way the game could bring people together. Remembered what the government was afraid of now. But now they know who to send to the academies – the youngsters, and often girls, brainwashed into thinking football is something dangerous, dirty, disgusting, something that needs to be eradicated, destroyed, forgotten.

Instead of the gun, she now pulls out a device that looks a bit like insulin pen. A soft buzz is followed by a flash of sharp pain when the automatic needle pricks Álvaro’s skin. The best way to identify people now. Documents can be fake and fingertips don’t have to be in the database, but the DNA never lies. It’s in the database since the day the person is born, and it can never be changed.

The girl is now staring into a pad that is illuminating her face. The light reflects on the badge on her chest. _Officer Jiménez_ , it reads.

“I just play football,” Álvaro blurts out because the stern, determined face and stiff posture irritate him. “I’m not a serial killer.”

She glares at him like she’s deeply convinced playing football is much worse than killing people. Then the pad beeps and she looks at the screen.

“Match?” the officer behind Álvaro asks.

Officer Jiménez nods and puts the pad down. “Álvaro Borja Morata Martín, you’re under arrest for illegal activity involvement. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer. If you can’t afford to hire a lawyer, one will be appointed to represent you if you wish,” she recites like a machine.

The other policeman makes him stand up, not giving a damn if he can or can’t walk. They are almost at the door when the unmistakable loud noise of shots cuts through the silence. Álvaro startles, the two officers exchange worried looks.

“I’ll go have a look,” the man says. “Can you manage on your own?”

“Sure,” the girl snaps.

Overly excited and competitive. There’s no reason for her colleague to doubt that she would manage just fine, though. Despite being considerably shorter than Álvaro, Álvaro’s ankle, the handcuffs on his wrists and the gun she has clearly play for her.

* * *

When Officer Jiménez pushes Álvaro inside the van waiting outside (she practically has to drag him inside and by the time she is done, she looks annoyed and mildly exhausted), Sami gives him a look that could be translated as _we’re in deep shit, bro_.

Álvaro knows that they are. He doesn’t know what the penalty exactly is, probably it’s lower for the players than it’s for the coaches and owners, but it still counts in years.

Then the door of the van opens again and Iker lands on the floor between them. The officer who led him in looks at his colleague. “I’ll take it from here,” he says.

Officer Jiménez just shrugs and walks away slowly. Although it seems absurd, Álvaro doesn’t want her to go. She hates football and she’d make sure he’d rot in prison, yes, but she has a sense for rules. She’d want him to have a lawful trial. On the contrary, there is something off with the other policeman, something wicked in the way he smirks as he closes the door.

Nobody speaks as the van starts moving, but with minutes passing, they start exchanging worried looks. It surely doesn’t take this long to get to the nearest police station.

After what feels like hours, the van stops. Things start to blur for Álvaro then. There is an empty space, some parking lot in the middle of nowhere, and expensive looking cars parked there. Men in dark suits talking to the officer, gesturing wildly, and all the time Álvaro expects a bullet in the head anytime.

And then one of the men in suits takes Iker around the shoulders and leads him to one of the cars, and Álvaro starts to understand. He’s heard about it, the whispered rumors about corrupted officers who make deals with the owners of foreign clubs, those from the countries where football is not banned. He’s always had it for fairy-tales, same as those that made girls dream of being saved by handsome princes.

But then one of the men walks up to him and, supporting him carefully, leads him to another car, and suddenly Álvaro is a part of one of these fairy-tales, but all that he can think of is that he didn’t ask for it.

* * *

When they finally arrive at their final destination, Álvaro is so exhausted from the lack of sleep, the fear and the pain that he practically rolls out of the car. There are people talking around him, maybe talking to him, but he doesn’t care anymore. He’s confused and scared, and all he wants to do is to curl up and sleep.

If this means salvation, then he doesn’t feel saved at all.

* * *

When they finally arrive at their final destination, Iker feels the immense weight lift from his shoulders. Until now he wasn’t sure that this was how he wanted it, how he planned it, because he took a leap in the dark tonight, but when he sees the lights of Porto, he finally feels safe.

He now knows that the risk he took when he made the anonymous denouncement paid off.

* * *

The first time Álvaro sees the Juventus Stadium, he can’t even speak. It’s the first time he sees a real stadium, with tribunes and equipment. The first time he sees football being played outside, on real grass. It looks like the stadiums from his childhood dreams. But there is no joy in that for Álvaro now. Because the joy is not shared. Suddenly he longs for the artificial grass and stiff air of the underground storeroom, he longs for everything he knew before. He longs for the people he knew before, and who knew him.

“I know how you feel,” someone says behind his back.

“No, you don’t,” Álvaro mumbles, not even looking at the stranger. “Nobody knows how I feel.”

Fernando – Álvaro remembers his name for some reason, although the memories of his first night are mostly blurred – sits next to him. “There’s no reason why you should feel guilty,” he says.

Álvaro looks at him with surprise. Guilt is indeed what he is feeling right now. He feels like he doesn’t deserve all this. Doesn’t deserve being here, getting all this for free. There were others that gave the game more than it was worth. “I did nothing to deserve this,” he says quietly.

“No, you didn’t,” Fernando says calmly. “You were lucky. We all were. And when I came here from Spain, I thought the same. I felt the same way. There were others, better than me surely, that deserved more than they could get back there. But I got this, and the only thing I can do is to profit from it to the fullest. Not let it go to waste. And it’s the only thing you can do. For yourself, and for them. They’d want you to be happy, whoever and wherever they are.”

Álvaro looks at him, but before he can process his words, Fernando gets up again and leaves him to his thoughts.

* * *

The first time Iker steps on the pitch and breathes in the smell of grass and lime, takes in the bright green and clean white, not washed out by the fluorescent lights, he feels what he’s always dreamt of feeling.

When he makes the first save, his heart beats fast with excitement and he knows that he is more alive than ever.

This is the way football is supposed to feel.

* * *

Álvaro still feels the guilt stinging him inside when he walks on the pitch for the first time, and it feels like the whole world sits on his shoulders now. What he does is familiar, although the air filling his lungs is different, and so is the grass, his teammates, and the atmosphere.

When he scores his first goal, he doesn’t celebrate it. It simply doesn’t feel right to do it. But when Fernando runs up to him and hugs him, it’s all a little bit lighter and easier, and the guilt transforms into joy.

This is the way football is supposed to feel.


End file.
